


Hand in Glove

by irrationalgame



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, self-injury, wwi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:20:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalgame/pseuds/irrationalgame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumours about how Mr Barrow got his injury pique Jimmy's interest and he determines to find the truth; about Mr Barrow and himself.</p>
<p>One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand in Glove

Jimmy had heard rumours, quietly whispered between hall boys and kitchen maids, of what was beneath Mr Barrow's glove:

"He's got the _stigmata_ ," one of the kitchen maids claimed, wide-eyed.

"He killed a man with his _bare hands,_ s'what I've heard," a hall boy hissed.

"His hand is all black and wrinkled, like a _Mummy_ ," a young house maid had asserted.

"He were a _pirate_ and a canon-ball hit him right in the hand."

"It were a _duel_ with a sword-wielding villain!"

"The hand has a life of its own! It tries to strangle you when you're _sleeping_..."

"He's a _vampire_ and..."

"He's sold his soul like _Dorian_ _Grey_ , and that's the only part of him that ages..."

"He's got a monster hand sewn on, like in _Frankenstein_..."

And so the legends went, until hall boys and maids scurried away from Mr Barrow in fear, wanting, but also _not wanting_ , to see what was really beneath the glove. Jimmy had laughed at their ridiculous theories, but he was curious about what had really happened to Mr Barrow; he'd never seen him without a glove covering the wound and he'd never really talked about it.

"It happened in the war," Anna said, when Jimmy casually asked her. "He was shot in the hand, the bullet went straight through, apparently."

"Oh," Jimmy replied, a strange gnawing developing in his stomach when he imagined Mr Barrow in the trenches, cold and tired and in agony, his hand bleeding all over his uniform. Jimmy was a base rat for most of the conflict and had only been in the trenches himself for a few weeks before the war was over - even that had been enough to give him nightmares ever since. "How long was Mr Barrow out there?" he questioned.

"About two years, I think," Anna replied. Jimmy grimaced - two years at the front line would have been an eternity. Many men didn't last two months, let alone two years.

"Have you ever seen it," Jimmy lowered his voice, "his hand?"

Anna shook her head. "He always keeps a glove on - I think it bothers him, though I doubt he'd admit it. I'd have thought you of all people would know this Jimmy - aren't you two friends?"

"Yes," Jimmy nodded, "but he never talks about it."

"Maybe he would if you asked him?" Anna shrugged.

Jimmy determined to ask Mr Barrow about his hand - not to pry but because, to Jimmy's surprise, he found he actually cared. He reasoned it wasn't unusual to care about a friend and that there was definitely nothing untoward in his interest. He pictured Mr Barrow's other, unblemished hand, the long, deft fingers and the work-worn palm and wondered how it would feel pressed against the small of his back or wrapped around his own hand. Jimmy's stomach flipped, not in disgust, but rather with excitement and longing, so much that Jimmy had to push the thoughts away for fear he would become obviously aroused in the servants' hall.

In honesty, his thoughts had been verging on 'untoward' for a while - he couldn't remember when exactly he'd starting thinking of Mr Barrow like _that_ , but he supposed it had been a slow realisation over the course of several months, rather than a sudden eureka moment. It made him uncomfortable and irritated; as much as he tried to not feel anything, he couldn't stop the rising tide of attraction and affection if he wanted too. And he wasn't even sure he did want to stop it.

~

That evening Jimmy waited in the servants' hall, idly playing cards and willing the other staff to retire so he could have some time alone with Mr Barrow. The under-butler was currently swaying back and forth in the rocking chair beside the fire, his grey eyes fixed on a newspaper, his black hair falling softly over his brow. The glow from the fire lit Mr Barrow's handsome, angular features from below, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones, the hollows of his cheeks and and the fullness of his lips. Jimmy couldn't help but stare; he'd never let himself consider just how attractive Mr Barrow was. He tried to recall the sensation of Mr Barrow's red lips on his own, but he'd worked so hard to repress that particular memory that he couldn't remember anything except his own (rather dubious) outrage.

"Jimmy, do you want something?" Mr Barrow finally said, when he and Jimmy were the last two souls in the servants' hall. "Because you've been staring at me for a good ten minutes and I'm beginning to think there's something wrong with my face."

"Oh sorry Mr Barrow, I didn't mean anything by it, I just..." Jimmy trailed off, uncertain how to continue. He could hardly say he'd been admiring his handsome features, could he? "I wanted to ask you something personal, s'all."

Mr Barrow folded the newspaper and smoothed it on his lap. "Go on," he replied, looking at Jimmy with suspicion. Jimmy got up from the table and dragged his chair over to the fire so he was sitting directly opposite Mr Barrow.

"I was wondering about your hand," he licked his lips nervously, worried he'd cause offence.

"Have the hall boys been winding you up with tales of horror?" Mr Barrow smirked.

"You know about the rumours?" Jimmy said, surprised.

"Who do you think started them?" Mr Barrow laughed, "it's funny to see them so scared of me. Means they never give me no trouble neither."

Jimmy chuckled; "You're a sharp one, aren't you?"

"I suppose you want the true story," Mr Barrow picked up the poker and fiddled with the fire for a while before throwing on another log. "Thing is Jimmy, you'd think me most cowardly if you knew."

"I doubt that Mr Barrow," Jimmy said, "I could accuse you of a lot of things" - Mr Barrow blinked, abashed - "but cowardice isn't one of them."

"Alright," he sighed, his brilliant eyes downcast, "don't say I didn't warn you though. You know I was a medic?" Jimmy nodded, silently urging Mr Barrow to continue. "Well I signed up thinking it would save my skin and I'd be less likely to see any action. Backfired like all my plans seem to - I was on the front line for two years." He grimaced, the memory clearly painful.

"It were awful out there," Jimmy added, "I woke up every day thinking it were my last. Some days I even hoped it."

Mr Barrow nodded in agreement. "I was holding up best I could, but it were hard when men were dying all around me and I spent my hours stuffing men's guts back into gaping holes in their stomachs and carrying men with half their limbs blown off to their certain death." He paused, touching his forehead in distress. Jimmy shuffled his chair closer and put a comforting hand on Mr Barrow's elbow.

"I'll admit I were terrified," Mr Barrow continued, "and I thought of Downton every day. I'd been so glad to leave this place but I realised how stupid I'd been to think this was a bad sort of life. One evening I saw a soldier, a friend, a man I'd been working with for nigh on a year, shot straight through the head, through his helmet an' all. That was it, that was my limit." He lit a cigarette, his hands shaking.

"Of course, I'd heard of men doing things to themselves so they could get a Blighty one," Mr Barrow shrugged, "I'd seen it enough, men with holes in their feet and that, but I were too much of a coward to even turn my gun on myself. So I put my hand up over the top and let the jerries do the rest."

"You could've had your hand blown right off!" Jimmy exclaimed, shaking his head.

"That were still preferable to dying," Mr Barrow said quietly. "I suppose you think me cowardly now."

"No," Jimmy took Mr Barrow's left hand between his own, "I don't. I'd never have survived two years - I couldn't even shoot straight. If I didn't think so highly of myself I'd have been tempted to go over the top and just walk in front of the guns. You did your bit and you came home alive - you're still a hero to me, Mr Barrow."

"Thank you Jimmy," he said, his bottom lip trembling, "thank you."

"Can I see it?" Jimmy asked, already peeling the soft leather glove from Mr Barrow's hand.

He nodded tightly. "S'not a pretty sight though."

Jimmy pulled off the glove and placed it on his knee, then examined the wound closely; the bullet had left Mr Barrow's palm with a deep hollow in the centre, the scar tissue running up to the base of this third and fourth fingers. Jimmy turned Mr Barrow's hand over and traced the scars with the tip of his index finger, making Mr Barrow's hand twitch and tremble.

"Oh Thomas," Jimmy stammered, "does it still hurt?" His own bones ached with the thought of how Thomas's desperation had driven him to such an act.

"It give me grief sometimes," he explained, "if I use it too much or if it's cold. It'll never be right."

Jimmy raised Thomas's hand to eye-level and placed a deliberate kiss on his palm; he could feel the raised scars against his lips. Thomas gasped and pulled his hand back as if he'd been bitten.

"Jimmy?" He said, dumbfounded. Jimmy didn't answer but rather leant forwards, placing a kiss at the corner of Thomas's mouth.

"Mmmm," Jimmy mumbled, first kissing Thomas's bottom lip and then his top one. Thomas was still and silent, but Jimmy could feel his ragged breath against his mouth. "Thomas, won't you kiss me?" Jimmy pleaded, letting his hand fall on Thomas's knee, "I want you to kiss me." Thomas seemed to snap out of his reverie and finally let his mouth respond to Jimmy's gentle teasing. They kissed languidly until Jimmy had to break apart, his face red and his heart hammering wildly. Thomas didn't speak, as if he were afraid of ruining the moment.

"I have a few things to tell you - things I've been too afraid to say until now," Jimmy gulped nervously. "Things I didn't really understand until recently. If I'm honest, I still don't understand them, but I feel them all the same. And tonight I" - he blushed, unsure of himself - "I realised how much you mean to me. I - I can't stand the thought of you alone, or hurt, or sad. It makes me nauseous and jittery. I think about you a lot, when I'm supposed to be serving or listening to Carson, or when I'm alone." The words tumbled from Jimmy's mouth, as if he had to say everything before his brain realised what he was doing.

"I think about you kissing me," Jimmy continued, "an' me kissing you back. I imagine us together, and Thomas, my chest _aches_ 'cause of it. I don't know much 'bout love Thomas, but I - I think I love you. I know I can't live without you; is that love?" He looked so worried that Thomas couldn't help but pull him into a hug. Jimmy let himself be enveloped by Thomas's reassuring arms, his head resting in the crook of Thomas's neck.

"Yes Jimmy," Thomas marvelled, "I do believe it is."

"Then I love you, Mr Barrow," Jimmy said, matter-of-factly, "an' I've loved you a lot longer than I realised."

**Author's Note:**

> A base rat - WW1 slang for a soldier who worked at the base, thus keeping themselves away from the front.
> 
> Blighty one - an injury severe enough to get a soldier sent home from the the front line (Blighty being a nickname for Britain).
> 
> Jerry/Jerries - British slang term for German soldiers durin WWI/WWII


End file.
